Just Another Day
by M.J.P. Smith
Summary: A little look into the daily lives of the Doctor, Rose and Jack before they're separated.


**Just Another Day**

For living in a sort of ship, the TARDIS crew kept to a schedule much they would on Earth. They used Earth's twenty-four-hour day, and slept about eight hours sometime between 2200 at _night _and 1000 in the _morning_.

This morning, Rose woke first, her Nokia's alarm waking her at 0730 to a terrible polyphonic tone she'd rather forget. She wanted to make her companions breakfast after the terror they faced yesterday. "Well," she thought, "not terror, I suppose."

Another day doing what no one else can. Just another day travelling time and space.

The room was spacious. When the Doctor explained how the TARDIS rooms are made, he explained something about how She taps your mind for preferences and settings. Rose rather liked the large room, high ceilings and access directly into the wardrobe and bathroom.

This morning, not expecting much other than food and coffee, Rose donned a pink hoodie and jeans. Nothing too silly. Just the guys after all.

Across the lightly humming ship, Jack slept peacefully as he could. His body was tense and his posture belied experience with resting in rough spots. His right hand tightly held a large, frightening blade. His left hovered centimeters from his sonic blaster.

Jack has some skeletons hiding in his closet. His dreams only really cover three things: letting go of his brother, his tenure with the Time Agency, and disappointing the Doctor again.

When his body finally felt rested enough, he woke without external stimuli hollering and moving his knife and gun into defensive postures.

He breathed heavily. "Nothing," he said at the small, undecorated room.

Jack holstered his blaster, replaced the knife in a sheath at his belt and threw on a plain, white shirt. He muttered as he considered taking a jacket to breakfast, decided against it and took off down the hall to the control room.

The Doctor doesn't seem to sleep.

He just moves around the TARDIS control boards occasionally pressing a button or throwing a switch.

"You," he says slowly, stroking a bit of the paneling. He'd been doing this a great deal lately. For all he knew, this was the last TARDIS in the whole of the universe. It may as well be the last in reality.

It was one of his greatest temptations. Find some other universe, one close enough to his that he could justify leaving, where he didn't have to do it; where he didn't have to set ten million ships on fire, didn't have to kill ten billion Gallifreyans and Time Lords.

But he banished the thought from his mind and kept on petting panels.

"I never wanted this for either of us."

He took a look over the controls. Seems they're somewhere within a century of the Powell Estate. "Maybe it's time to take Rose home."

Irritated with the idea, he kicked the underside of the board. The time rotor hissed and they shifted to the fifty-first century. "I don't want to be here either. I like them," he said, almost pleading with his TARDIS. "What's so wrong with them?"

He didn't get an answer, but knew that it must have something to do with the time vortex. He didn't press his wonderful machine for those responses. Some things are better left to the future where they belong.

The main hall-door opened and Jack walked into the control room.

"Morning," the Doctor greeted.

Jack stopped stiff, tucked his heels together and saluted. "Sir."

The Doctor returned it half-heartedly.

"Where's Rose this morning," Jack asked.

"No idea," the Doctor answered. "Still in bed, perhaps. Wouldn't that be nice," he said with a grin.

"Yes, sir. Anything today," Jack asked, referring to any random trips the Doctor expects.

"Nothing," the Doctor says, hitting the time rotor with his fist. The screen shifted from the Gallifreyan symbols denoting the fifty-first century to those of the forty-thousandth, give or take a bit.

"Alright," Jack says. "Breakfast?"

"Good ol' British," the Doctor says.

"Twentieth century," Jack asks.

"I was thinking the kitchen," the Doctor corrects.

"Fine, fine," Jack acquiesces. "But I want some of that greasy English food next time we're near that century."

"No," the Doctor says. "You want to dance in that century."

"Not at all. Right here's fine," Jack retorts. "You tempt me with your forwardness." He smiled widely.

"You're both terrible dancers," Rose says walking into the control room. "And you don't half smell. Don't you bathe," she asked, shoving plates of food at both of them.

"You shouldn't have," Jack says in his round-a-bout thanks.

"Mum's recipe. She was up early and got me in the mood to cook properly," Rose says.

"Your mother's cooking," the Doctor says. "Not made of glass and pins, is it," he jokes.

"Not as such, just egg and meat and a bit of cheese, I'm afraid."

Rose laughs. Jack joins her on the first bite of his breakfast. The Doctor walks around to lean against the railing and eat.

"Not too bad. Tell your mother she needs more grass in her diet," the Doctor says.

"I'll do," Rose says between laughs and forkfuls of omelet.

Just another day as time travellers.


End file.
